Gather Round
by Mona Ogg
Summary: Ioreth tells the story of one of the Lesser Rings. A tale of Elves and Hobbits... oneshot


I don't own Middle-Earth or anything that is a part thereof, but its realms and characters are firmly lodged in my mind… you could say that I belong to Middle-Earth, instead.

A/N: I wrote this on another site (www.shirefellowship.tk) in the series "Tolkien character monologues", linked with "Tales of the lesser rings". As I haven't been able to come up with anything else fitting the description, I guess this classifies as a one-shot, barring (happy) accidents… If you're not interested in Ioreth's ramblings, scroll down to the main title for the ring-tale.

Ioreth

Oh, my poor old feet! I tell you, cousin, but the roads are getting longer and more difficult each day. I've only been out to gather fresh herbs, I was low on athelas, you know, kingsfoil... funny how everyone knows its Elvish name now, while fifty years ago there was hardly anyone that'd recognise it if you waved it at them! Why, before King Elessar, bless his soul, before he returned... funny how we say that as if it had been him that went away all those years ago, but it may as well have been, he's all that Elendil was and more, if half the stories are true... anyway, before he returned, I say, hardly anyone remembered that there was anything special at all about the herb! But how important it turned out to be... If I hadn't remembered the old saying, you know, "The hands of the king..." oh, all right, but you can't blame me for rambling on a bit now and then about them great days, you should have _seen_ it, I tell you, instead of just popping over for the coronation...

Where was I? Oh, yes. Well, athelas. Now everyone knows that it's best picked on the mountain-slopes, that's where I've been today, feels like I've walked to Rivendell and back! Oh, but have you been to Rivendell? I haven't been, myself, but I've talked to some that passed that way, it must be quite a sight to see! Or must have been, I should say, I don't know how many of the Imladris-folk have left by now... Very sad it is, if you think about it, and our own queen one of them... Oh, but she is a sweet lady, and you won't find none equal to her in this time in Middle-Earth... They say she looks just like Lúthien Tinúviel of the songs of old, but I say she's the fairest that ever was, and she's like a song herself without needing any music, if you understand what I mean. So happy and so sad she looks sometimes... and no wonder, with all her kin sailed away beyond a mortal's reach!

But I was talking of Rivendell. They used to tell stories there, in the old days, and songs that were so beautiful and complicated they passed right over my head but still left me sitting in a daze after they'd ended. Oh, and some were utter nonsense, of course, but who am I to judge? It makes you feel young again, hearing Elvish music, or then again older than words, but that's how they are, you know...  
Oh, but other folk passed through Rivendell as well, particularly the first few years after the fall of the Enemy, all sorts, really: Elves, Dwarves, and the occasional Hobbit, too! That's what they call themselves, you know, the halfling-folk... oh, of course you know, cousin, I know, everyone knows... Doesn't it strike you as funny, though, fifty years back, they were just part of some long-forgotten tales we used to tell our children, or rather, that our grandmothers told us when we were children, because so much gets lost each generation, so much left unsaid...

Now, that was a nasty comment, cousin, there was no need for that. I do _not_ talk enough for two generations, and if I do, where's the harm? Imagine if no-one told any stories at all, where would we be then?  
Anyway, I was going to tell you a story, one I'm certain I haven't told you before... it's been told to _me_ by a halfling, a nice young thing, such a cute wooly head of course, a son of one of those brave heroes that helped defeat the Dark Lord long ago... He'd been gathering some records from all over because they're getting interested in stories again up there in the Shire, after they've played a part in such an important one, or that's what he said - what was his name again? I can't remember. The memory isn't what it used to be...

_comment from the cousin, which is pointedly ignored: The mouth's certainly as fine as it ever was..._

Anyway, I think he said he came by this story in Rivendell, where they know a good deal about lore of all kinds, or at least they did then, and he told it to me one evening during dinner, because I liked his way of talking and he liked my cooking, and he said it was a story especially for me. Well, enough about how I came to hear it, I just wanted to tell it to you, so this is how it goes: It's called

**Gather Round.** (That's the title of the story, I'm not making this up, I tell you!)

Everyone knows about the Rings of Power - the Three, the Seven, the Nine and the One. The One was made by the Dark Lord alone, and it was the most powerful, but could be used only for evil deeds, none good. The others were made by the Elves, and had different kinds of power, but this tale doesn't tell of their fate. This tale is about one of the Lesser Rings, one of the rings the Elves made before they forged the Great Rings of power.

How many Lesser Rings were made nobody knows; nor do they remember what powers they had or what became of them. Sometimes, however, one stumbles across an account by pure chance that tells an unexpected story. This tale has passed through Rivendell, whence it came is a tale in itself that others have to tell.

A very long time ago, in days of old, there lived in the vale of the Anduin a little people, the forefathers of hobbits nowadays. They lived in burrows in the banks of the river and lived on fish and roots and whatever food could be got without too much trouble. Mostly they lived further in the north, but one family lived on the very borders of Lothlorien - or Laurelindorenan, or whatever it was called in those days. There were more trees in those days, too, and the Ents still walked about more often, or so they say.

The Elves of the Golden Wood soon became aware of their small wolly-toed neighbours, of course, but as they were so short-lived and, for the most part, uninterested in lore and poetry and all that the Elves loved, they generally ignored each other. Hobbit children were warned against venturing into the Golden Wood, where things were stranger than strange, their parents said.

One night, however, a small girl who chattered less and watched more than all her siblings, was wandering alone between the roots of the trees along the riverbed, so lost in thought that when she looked up again, she found that the sun had set and she was further away from home than she had ever been. The golden leaves were rustling behind her, and the water before her feet grew darker and darker as she watched. Although she'd grown up beside it and knew the river well, it always frightened her in the night - it seemed to grow wider and deeper and colder and blacker, and as she looked at it she shivered. Turning her back on the menacing waters and her family's warnings, she went deeper into the woods.

It just so happened that her steps took her toward the smithy of an Elven-Smith who was just then trying to perfect his skill of binding charms in metal. Perhaps he was one of those that forged the Seven or the Nine, perhaps he wasn't - his skill was not so great then, at least.

This particular night he was sitting outside his abode, looking at the Silmaril of Eärendil in the sky, trying to guess how it was made and mourning the knowledge that was lost to those of the Elder Race that lived in exile. Caught up in his musings as he was, he still noticed a faint rustle as something approached him through the woods, but he believed it to be a deer, perhaps, or some other forest creature. He was startled to see a tiny child look back at him from between the trees, quite unafraid and curious. He spoke to her in the Common Tongue, clumsily for he didn't use it much, and she replied in clear, childish tones, but what they spoke of I do not know. They talked for some time, and he helped her find her way home.

When she had gone, he stared into the stars for a minute more, thinking of what she had told him about her people, and for a moment he could almost hear the sound of friendly voices by the fireside and marvelled about the cheerful simplicity of such a life. Living in burrows in the riverbank... a long time ago, his people had lived in caves before moving out into the open, some had never left. Suddenly he had to laugh as he considered his idea - that these small folk had more in common with the Elves than Men did, although they seemed so different at first sight.

With another laugh, he set to work...

When the child returned some days later, he had a ring ready for her.  
"This ring contains all that your people holds dear," he said, "and some of the things the Elves love. But it will be your ring, child, so it is your love and your wishes that shall bring out its power."  
She looked up at him with round eyes, not quite understanding him.  
"It does not have the power to change the world," he explained, "but if you wish to travel, it will guide your steps; if you wish to tell a tale, it will help you find the right words; if you wish to sing it will sweeten your voice. It's not much, but I hope it will help you to find happiness for yourself and your people."

She took it, then, and laughed, and a new light shone in her eyes.  
"What I most love," she told the Elf, "is to tell stories at the fireside after a good meal." She smiled, and with those words left the woods to return to her family.

Some years later she married a lad from further north and went to live with his family, but wherever she went the fire burned merrier, the meals were better and songs and stories were heard every night, so that people from far away came by for a short visit and stayed for weeks. The power of the ring of Gather Round, as she called it to herself, spread through her whole people so that to this day they enjoy the same things: a good meal and a bright fire, a few songs and lots of stories, with a boiling kettle maybe and a good smoke... Though nobody knows what became of the ring, its power lives on: In any home of any hobbit, in the Shire or outside, there's always someone to say, when the stomachs are full, "Gather round! And listen to my tale..."

That's the story the hobbit told me. From Rivendell, he said.


End file.
